Tag: family

Lying

A drunken night it’d been.

Not too long after the wedding, they’d argued, saying things they didn’t mean.

Storming out, he’d stopped at the local bar.

The bartender had been understanding. Pouring his favourite drink, she’d listened all night as he whined. So kind, she’d even offered him her room in the hotel above the bar. He’d been too drunk to drive and sad to go home.

She’d been asleep when he left the following morning. He’d agonised himself before realising his love for his wife.

Regret and a glimmer of lie sustained his marriage.

Until death did them part.

Breathe in, breath out. Day in and out.

Work was mind-numbing. But he couldn’t complain. It was his life, his duty. As a responsible adult and a devoted family man, he had to fend for those who depended on him.

It wasn’t satisfying, but it didn’t have to be. However late they paid the bills. Though thatched, they had a roof over their heads, and regardless of shabbiness, they had clothes.

Nevertheless, each day was painful for the body and soul—with torturous commutes, tormenting communes, terrifying consequences, and terrible conditions. Not only did he haul stones at a construction site, but also the lives of three toddlers.

People believe what they will

No two people believe in the same things. Whether it’s lifestyle, philosophy, religion, or others’ behaviour, we don’t all trust the same things. My father, for instance, is a huge believer in idol worship. He never begins an endeavour unless he’s got the blessing from the almighty—which involves visiting a temple and lighting a lamp as an offering, before seeking blessing.

I accompanied him once. I watched as he took solemn steps towards the high-perched, sword-wielding lords, a forlorn look in his eyes and devotion brimming in his heart. My father wasn’t trying to flatter the gods into doing what he wanted. I’ve seen a lot of people promising offers to the lord in exchange for their expectations. But my father wasn’t one of them. All he wanted was to inform the lords about his decision and to wish they’d guide him throughout his quest.

I’m not much of an idol worshipper. For me, it all seems meaningless. But the entire time I observed my father, I neither felt like belittling his faith or trying to sway him into my belief of how unstable worshipping a statue is. Instead, I remained in a state of bemusement, surprised at his resolve.

I didn’t laugh at my father’s practice. That’s in part because I was too scared to offend him, but more so because I had no right to mock his way of doing things. How he chose to live is up to him, and as long as it doesn’t hurt me, it doesn’t have to concern me either.

It later dawned on me that this is the understanding we lack as a society. Perhaps if it had been someone else in my father’s place, I would’ve scorned at them. Perhaps we are all a little like that—exhibiting the irresistible urge to make others agree with us. Displaying courage and the vanity to come out as the better person—the more sane person—we often come off as arrogant and assertive.

That’s why we are so divided. We can’t accept the diversity in us. That’s why we fight, brawl, and war. We should, instead, learn to respect the differences amongst us and live with them. That’s the only way forward to build an equitable society.

Jobs

I walk to work every morning. It’s a short, yet painful, trudging along uneven paths alongside heavy vehicles and motorbikes that zap by on full throttle.

But I shouldn’t complain. Because every day I see someone who deserves to spend an entire day nestled in a well-furnished, air-conditioned, room pitying himself.

He’s a family man in his late fifties, by the looks of him. I see him quite early in the morning—about 7:30 am—so judging by his eyes, he works all night. His job is to stand in front of a restaurant, wave a baton, and usher ongoing vehicles to stop by for a meal. The restaurant pays him to be their traffic generator.

This hotel is on the national highway (or freeway), and so there are thousands of vehicles—lorries, private cars, motorbikes—passing by every night. And because it’s dark, his baton lights up like Luke Skywalker’s Lightsaber.

It’s his job. It’s fine. It’s tiring, but he gets paid. He stands all night, but he gets paid. It’s a menial job, but it’s only one in many such jobs.

I understand, and so does everyone else who walks or whizzes past him every day. But I don’t understand why he waves to passing vehicles on broad daylight, trying to usher the most unlikeliest of drivers.

Often thinking about him, I’ve concluded he does it out of practice. He’s so used to trying to attract motorists that he doesn’t even realise the futility of waving at bicyclists at 8 in the morning. Sometimes he stands there, swaying half-asleep, yet waving his baton hoping someone would pull over.

No one would pull over.

As I pass him everyday, I see quivering within him a soul that triggers on the border of giving up. It’s as if there’s no longer hope and liveliness left in his bereft life.

I hate my work sometimes, but I don’t hate my job. Though on some days I don’t even feel like going to work, I know there’s always a reason for me to go. Something pulls me forward, encouraging me to keep one foot in front of the other. It’s hard to find motivated days at times, but I know they’re there. Because on a deeper level, I still find meaning in what I do.

He doesn’t.

And seeing him live such a mechanical life, waving his arms like a madman, sleepless, lifeless, and soul-less, puts so many things in perspective. Not everyone has the luxury to do what they’d like. Life thrusts on some of us a fate they wouldn’t even wish on their vilest enemy. It’s the reality of our world, a harsh undesirable reality.

If we realise that, perhaps we’d be more thankful for what we do have.